


The Warner Brothers' Matchmaking Service

by l57371



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 18:48:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6670543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l57371/pseuds/l57371
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The rum, though,” Lowell’s voice dropped back to the low purr, “that was our idea.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Warner Brothers' Matchmaking Service

House stomped out of the elevator as soon as the doors opened, fury radiating from his face as he hurtled down the hall. His cane thudded hollowly on the carpeted floor, his shoulders were hunched and his eyes flashed at anyone who dared look at him. His entire body screamed anger. It also whispered hurt, but nobody could see that part as they rushed to avoid the oncoming hurricane House.

He stopped abruptly in front of Wilson’s office door, still closed and locked at this hour of the morning. This was unusual. Wilson should have been in his office with the door open, the very picture of dedication and caring. It was also unusual that House should be in this early, as he generally wasn’t even out of bed for another hour.

He rummaged for his keys in his overcoat pocket, yanking them out with a satisfying jangle and shaking them savagely until he found the one to open Wilson’s office door. He jammed it in the lock, turned it and threw open the door, whacking it on the wall behind. He stalked into the room, mouth open to deliver the scathing words ready at his lips.

Wilson lay on his couch, face down, dressed loosely in scrubs, and fast asleep. His left knee was hitched up and falling slightly off the narrow cushions while his right leg was stretched out behind him, his ankle hooked over the arm and his bare foot turned slightly inwards as it draped over the side. The blanket that usually lay on the back of the couch lay crumpled below his foot. His right arm was curled under his head, raising it slightly off the sofa cushions and allowing the drool to pool beneath his chin. His left arm trailed down to the floor, his fingers curling loosely upward. The scrubs Wilson had chosen were a little on the large side and there was a gap between the tops and bottoms, exposing a strip of his lower back where they pulled downward. He flinched slightly in his sleep when the door banged open, but other than that was dead to the world.

House took in the sight before him without a word, quietly shutting the door behind him and locking it again. So this is what you were up to instead of watching movies with me? He thought. Taking a goddamned NAP?

He breathed out forcefully through his nose and thinned his lips, forcing down the wave of attraction that threatened to crash over him at the sight of Wilson, relaxed and peaceful in sleep, and tried to remember that he was angry instead. He raked his eyes over the sleeping form allowed himself one quick fantasy of that body, warm and heavy, against his in his bed while they slept together, then shook himself back to reality.

Wilson snuffled in his sleep, then shifted his legs and turned his head to face the other way. It looked damned uncomfortable to House, but Wilson seemed to settle back to sleep with no problem at all. In his fidgeting, Wilson’s scrub pants pulled down a little at the back, exposing the beginning of the swell of his ass and showing House that there was no underwear there either. But there was a bandage. A two by two bandage, held on with first aid tape. Why was there a bandage on Wilson’s ass?

House’s curiosity got the better of him and he approached the sleeping man, pulling gently on the scrub pants to expose the rest of the bandage and incidentally a little more of that beautiful curving butt. He tugged gently at the first aid tape, pulling back a corner of the bandage, then a little more as the area was uncovered. It was shiny, glistening with what looked like maybe a clear antibiotic cream, and beneath that was … Tweety Bird. A picture of a little yellow canary with a gigantic head. Yep, Tweety Bird. Wilson had a tattoo of Tweety Bird on his ass. A brand new one.

What the HELL did he DO last night, anyway?

House limped softly over to Wilson’s desk, flipping through to the pages to find the entry for the day previous. Under 6 p.m. he found a notation in Wilson’s scrawled, slanting handwriting, ‘dinner with WR and DL’ and under 8 p.m. he found his own name. Who were WR and DL? House racked his brain trying to find names to go with the initials but none were forthcoming. He looked up suddenly and his gaze darted about the room, finally finding what he was looking for: a gym bag on the floor, zipper open. Wilson’s clothes, it had to be.

He padded quietly over to the bag and rooted through it with the tip of his cane. The wafting smell of rum rose up to assault his nose. Ah, well, that was the reason for the scrubs, anyway. Wilson must have spilled rum on his clothes, a lot of it, judging by the smell. Carefully, awkwardly, he lowered himself to his knees and dug through the pile of sodden clothing, feeling pockets until he found Wilson’s cell phone in the pocket of his suit coat.

Sitting back against the arm of the sofa, he flipped open the device and accessed the address book function. Wilson mumbled in his sleep and twitched the hand that was laying on the carpet and House froze, waiting until his friend settled again. He scrolled through the entries but found none that matched the initials in the datebook. House narrowed his eyes in frustration and then hit the button for the recent calls list. Almost all of them had names attached to them, and he snorted softly to himself to find that his was the one that showed up most often. But there were two numbers that were only numbers, no identifying names. One was a local number, and one had an area code he didn’t recognize, 514.

On the couch, Wilson began mumbling again and House figured it was time to leave before his moving about the room woke Wilson. House wasn’t ready to confront him just yet. He levered himself upward as quietly as he could manage, then pocketed the cell phone and limped quickly to the door. His hand on the doorknob, he hesitated and looked back at his friend, his face soft and open in sleep. Cursing himself for a sentimental sap, House went back to the couch and picked up the fallen blanket, draping it carefully over Wilson’s prone form and tucking it around his torso. He rested his hand lightly on the back of Wilson’s head, petting his hair and sighing at the feel of the soft, silky strands between his fingers. Briefly he had an image in his head of how his hand would rest right in that very spot as he held the back of Wilson’s head while they kissed.

All too soon, House pulled his hand back, hobbled silently to the door and slipped through, careful to lock it and pulled it closed behind himself.

 

House settled himself behind his own desk and booted up his computer. While he waited, he went over what he knew so far. He knew … well, not much. He knew that Wilson was passed out and didn’t look to be waking up too soon. He knew the rum was probably responsible. The rum was probably also responsible for the tattoo, though in theory it was illegal to tattoo a drunk man, but he imagined that even Wilson would know how to get around that rule.

The only trouble was, Wilson didn’t drink rum. Beer, sure, wine on occasion, even whiskey if House himself happened to be indulging, but never rum. Even when they went out, he never drank anything with rum in it. Probably because if this was the result, then better to not touch it, House thought. So what possessed Wilson to go out drinking rum with two people House had never heard of then?

The computer finally dinged its readiness and House quickly brought up a telephone number search site. He typed in the unknown number but got no results. Either private or a cell phone number then. He frowned at the screen for a moment and then brought up the second number, but instead of searching it he threw caution to the wind and just hit connect instead. He waited while it rang once, twice.

“Princeton Marriott Hotel and Conference Centre, good morning!” an entirely too cheerful voice chirped in his ear.

“Ah, good morning,” House said, forcing a friendly note into his voice that he didn’t in the least feel. “This is Dr. James Wilson calling.” He cringed inwardly.

“Oh, Dr. Wilson! I’m glad you called back!” Chirpy’s voice rose higher and higher as she spoke. “I have a message for you here from your friend, Dr. Lowell. He says, thanks for the great night, Jimmy, and you can pick up your-” her voice dropped to an alarming whisper, “-boxer shorts back at the restaurant.”

“Um,” House said, his eyes widening and his eyebrows raising impossibly high. “Did you say, boxers?”

“Yes sir, Dr. Wilson,” Chirpy’s voice got even higher but stayed soft. “That’s what it says. Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” House replied, picking up a pen from his desk just for something to fiddle with. “I don’t suppose it happens to say which restaurant, does it?”

“No, Dr. Wilson,” Chirpy said, sounding confused. “But you were there, weren’t you? Shouldn’t you know?”

“Right, sure,” House said, annoyed at himself for the easy slip up. “So, anything else there for me?”

“No, sir.”

“I don’t suppose Dr. Lowell is still there, is he?”

“No, sir. He and Dr. Raff checked out about an hour ago.” Aha! L and R, the initials Wilson had dinner with, he’d bet on it.

“Thank you,” House said distractedly as he flipped the phone closed. Silently, he stared off into the distance, tapping the closed phone against his chin as he contemplated the situation before him. Wilson had gone off drinking with two doctors who didn’t live in Princeton. He drank rum and lost his underwear and got a tattoo. This information did not at all jibe with the man House knew as his friend. Wilson was not spontaneous, he was not a big drinker, especially in public, and he absolutely did not go around getting tattoos of cartoon characters on his ass. House felt a stirring in his belly at the thought of the tattoo and the perfect ass on which it was etched. Well, not so perfect any more, not with a misshapen yellow bird permanently coloured onto it.

Maybe this wasn’t such a bad thing then. Maybe, now that the ass that had haunted his dreams for years was mutilated with a giant-headed canary, maybe he could finally let it go and stop obsessing over it. Over Wilson.

But he still had to find out what went on. There would be no way to let it go until he did. Resolutely he opened the phone back up and scrolled through to the number with the unknown area code and hit connect. He sat back and waited.

“Bon matin, Jimmy!” a smooth, rich voice purred in his House’s ear. “J’aurais pensé que vous étiez toujours dans votre lit!”

“Not Jimmy, sorry,” House growled back. “And he’s not in his bed, he’s passed out on the sofa in his office. I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me why?”

“Ah, this would have to be the famous Dr. House, yes?” the voice replied. “Jimmy may have mentioned you, once or twice,” there was chuckling in the background, and then someone else said loudly, “Ah, oui, once or twice every ten minutes or so!”

House switched ears with the phone so that he could grab up his cane and pace as he spoke. “Do I have the distinct pleasure of addressing Dr. Lowell or Doctor Raff?” he grated out with as much insincerity as he could manage.

“This is Dr. Lowell. Daniel, if you wish. My partner is Dr. William Raff.”

“Salut!” House heard in the background.

“Yeah, yeah, hi to him too.” House covered his eyes with his hand and stopped pacing for a moment. “Okay, so, I’m going to guess that you are friends of Wilson’s, yes? Probably from University?”

“Got it in one!” Lowell crowed. “You are indeed très futé, as Jimmy said.”

“And you took him out for dinner, got him drunk and then … I have no idea how you got from dinner to tattooing his ass.” House’s voice rose at the end of his sentence.

“We did not do that!” Lowell laughed. “Le petit oiseau, that was Jimmy’s idea. He said that the little thing reminded him of how he felt much of the time.”

House squeezed his eyes shut and tried to process that little tidbit of information, attempting to fit it into what he knew of his friend.

“The rum, though,” Lowell’s voice dropped back to the low purr, “that was our idea.”

“But Wilson doesn’t drink rum,” House protested.

“He used to. When we were in school, he used to drink rum when he would come out with us to the clubs. It is maybe a shame that he no longer does drink it, as it means that he no longer … goes out.”

“He goes out,” House replied. “He goes out with me all the time.”

“I think that perhaps he does not go out like he used to go out, whether he goes out with you or not.” Lowell said cryptically.

“What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Tell Jimmy he can find his underwear where we were last night.” House could hear Raff’s laughter in the background again.

“Jimmy is busy sleeping it off right now. Why don’t you tell me where I can find them?”

“I would think that if Jimmy has not told you, maybe I should not either.” Lowell’s voice was smug even through the tinny speaker of the phone.

“I would think that if you were such a good friend to Jimmy, you’d want to save him the embarrassment of having to track down his own underwear.” House pitched his voice low and tried for menacing, but he had the vague feeling that he was coming close to begging instead.

Silence on the other end of the phone. Then finally, “Sophie’s bistro. In Somerset. The restaurant part should be open soon.”

House let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Thank you.”

“De rien. And go easy on poor Jimmy, he’s had a rough night.”

And from Dr. Raff, “J'espère qu'il aura un meilleur jour, aujourd’hui!”

House closed the phone.

 

The Honda Repsol growled to a halt in front of a building that seemed to house two different businesses. The one he was in search of, Sophie’s Bistro, was a small restaurant, unassuming, quiet, very quaint in a French Provincial sort of way. It was located right beside a bar called “The Den”, which billed itself as ‘Central Jersey’s Best Night Club and Gay Bar.” Gay bar? Had to be a coincidence. They had just come for the food. House clambered off the bike and pushed the door to the bistro open.

A set of bells tinkled overhead as the door struck them. The place seemed to be deserted, not a soul in sight. House stumped further in, eying the decor. Just Wilson’s style, too. He always had an affinity for the over-the-top European transplanted style of decoration. House supposed it had come from never being able to tour Europe like a student and seeing the seamy underbelly and only ever seeing it as a honeymooner.

“Sorry, we’re not open yet,” a voice said, followed by a woman in an apron approaching from the kitchen.

“Not here to eat,” said House. “I’m here to collect something that belongs to a friend of mine. He was here last night and left his-” he stumbled a little over his words as he took in the sight of the lovely young woman in front of him. “Left … an article of clothing here. I’m here to pick it up for him. His name is Wilson.”

The woman rummaged under the front desk but came up empty-handed. “Sorry, there doesn’t seem to be anything for him. Are you sure he was here?”

“Fairly sure, yeah.” House was studying the menu on the sandwich board just inside the door as he spoke. “I see a wine list here, but I don’t see any hard alcohol. Don’t you serve rum?”

“No, we’re not licensed for liquor, only wine and beer.” She said. “Why do you ask?”

“He had rum last night,” House’s voice trailed off as he spoke.

“Oh, if he had rum then he must have been next door!” the woman exclaimed. “Just hold on a second while I run over and check there. Can you wait here?” Her words floated back over her shoulder as she hurried to the back of the restaurant and back into the kitchen.

Next door. House shook his head slowly. Wilson had been next door. At the gay bar. With Lowell and his partner. His partner William. Wilson had been at a gay bar with two gay men with whom he used to go to clubs when he was in University.

House had to sit down. He sank slowly into one of the damask waiting chairs beside the bistro door. None of this matched at all with the staid, buttoned-down, uptight, thrice-married friend he’d known for more than a decade. None of it was familiar at all.

It was better.

“I think I found it!” the woman cried as she rushed back into the dining room and toward House at the door. She brandished a manila envelope, sealed, with the words “Jimmy Wilson” written on the front. 

“It was next door? In the bar?” House asked, just to make sure.

“Sure was, sweetie!” the woman replied. “He must have had a good time if he was leaving clothes over there.” She leaned over the front desk and looked up at him through long, probably false, lashes. Her Adam’s apple bobbed as she swallowed from a glass of water in her other hand. Wait. Adam’s apple?

“Must have been,” House replied, a little weakly, and turned to go. “Thank you. For this.” He waved the envelope.

“Any time!” she called back, wiggling her fingers in a delicate wave.

He pushed out the door and stumbled back to his bike, stashing the envelope inside his jacket. He sat down on the seat and waited a few minutes for his head to clear, looking around as he did so. Across the street was a neon sign, blinking “Jet’s Tattoos and Body Piercing”. 

That looked like it was going to have to be stop number two.

 

House pushed through the door of the tattoo parlour. A large man was standing in front of an autoclave sorting instruments. He had artwork all up and down his bare arms and even across the back of his neck, disappearing down past the collar of his sleeveless muscle shirt. He had poles and rings and barbells in his ears, through his eyebrows, through his lip. His long hair hung in lank strands over his beefy shoulders and he wore a denim vest decorated with what looked like graffiti done in sharpie marker on it. House was willing to bet there were no Tweety Birds on this man.

He put the last of the instruments onto a metal tray and approached the front of the store. “Yeah? What you want?”

“You can tell me about a guy you put a Tweety Bird on last night, and why you would agree to tattoo a guy who was obviously drunk,” House replied.

“And why would I do that?” The man spread his arms and leaned forward on the desk menacingly, flexing his arm muscles. “Inking someone who’s been drinking is illegal, y’know.” He grinned ferally, showing off gaps between brown and broken teeth.

House shifted and pulled a wad of bills from his hip pocket, peeling off two under the counter where the other man couldn’t see them. He placed them on the counter.

The guy curled his lip, raised an eyebrow and snorted.

House pulled off two more bills, then another as the guy watched. The tattoo artist reached for the bills and pocketed them himself.

“You’re House, aren’t you?” the guy asked after a minute. 

House said nothing.

The guy almost smiled. “You are. You’re House. You’re the one that makes him feel like Tweety Bird. And you don’t even know why, do you?”

House remained silent, shuffling his feet in discomfort.

The guy shook his head. “Not my story to tell, man.” He turned and made his way back into the shop again. “You should ask him.”

“Hey! I just paid you to tell me!” House shouted at the guy’s retreating back. The guy ignored him. “And- he won’t tell me,” House said quietly, eyes on the floor.

Tattoo Guy sat on a wheeled stool and pushed himself over to a tilted drafting table. He picked up a coloured pencil and began shading a half-drawn picture attached to it. After a minute he looked back up at House, who hadn’t moved.

“His two friends brought him in here last night. Not even that late, only about 9:30.” He put down the pencil and turned on the stool to face House. “He said he wanted a picture of a fire-breathing dragon, all across his back. Gigantic, with wings and everything, and the word ‘House’ in big letters on the bottom. Would have cost a couple of thousand dollars. Taken six months, maybe a year to finish. And he’d have sobered up long before the first part was done anyway.” The guy snorted. “Or maybe bled to death.”

House chanced approaching the man slowly, moving across the shop toward him. “And you talked him down to a cartoon character?”

“Hey, he was soused. He was drunk and he took off his pants and underwear in my shop and he really, really wanted a tattoo. If I didn’t do something, he was going to stumble off somewhere else and maybe get that dragon. Or at least the beginnings of it before he sobered up. What I gave him was small, inoffensive, and easily removed if he wants to. Most people will never even know it was there. Besides, he paid very well for it. Who am I to say no to someone who throws down that kind of cash? The way I figure it, you *owe* me. I coulda given him the dragon.” 

House nodded vaguely in agreement. He couldn’t argue; it was mostly true. “Maybe I should call the cops and tell them about your taking advantage of a drunk guy,” House tried, knowing it was probably a useless threat.

“Prove it.” Tattoo Guy’s face hardened into a dangerous glower. House shook his head and backed down. There wouldn’t be any records, any receipts. He knew that.

“He said you made him feel like Tweety Bird. He said that always felt like you were going to eat him alive some day, just like Sylvester does to Tweety. Then he said that he felt like Tweety while you were the bulldog that always kept Sylvester away. He was kind of vague on which one you actually were. I think he was getting a little blurry around the edges by then.”

House merely nodded, taking it in. His lips thinned as he pressed them together. He knew when he was beaten. He bobbed his head, muttering, “Thank you. For doing that for him, I mean. Not the dragon.”

“You’re welcome.” The tattoo guy flashed his toothy grin. House turned to go but the guy’s voice followed him. “For what it’s worth, I told him to tell you how he felt.” House hesitated, nearly turned back, then continued out the door.

 

House pounded on the door of Wilson’s hotel room, then pulled out a purloined key card and slid it into the lock. The light flashed green and he pushed the door open.

Wilson lay on the bed, still wearing the scrubs, but now he was on his back, all except for the tattooed butt cheek. He had tilted his hips so that the sore one was raised slightly off the bed. He had one arm flung over his eyes, blocking out the mid-day light.

“Wakey, wakey,” House said as he sauntered into the room, letting the door shut behind him. He nonchalantly reached back and flipped the deadbolt too.

“How’d you find me?” Wilson said, not bothering to lift the arm.

“Cuddy squealed.”

“I’m going to assume you have my cell phone too, then?”

“Why would you think that?” House asked, injecting a note of hurt into his voice and sliding the phone onto the small table by the window.

Wilson raised his arm a little, fixed one eye on House and snorted softly, then let the arm drop back.

House let the silence stretch for a moment, then spoke. “So, Tweety Bird?”

Wilson moaned and turned over, facing away from House and toward the wall. “Look, I’m sorry I missed the movie last night, and I’m really sorry I didn’t call. I didn’t expect to be out so late for dinner. Some old friends were in town…”

“Yes, I know. Daniel and William, right? Nice guys, we had a good chat.”

Wilson groaned again. 

House waited a beat, then said, “I got your boxer shorts.” He pulled the envelope from his jacket and tossed it onto the bed.

Wilson pulled the pillow over his head and rolled right over onto his stomach. This had the added advantage of showcasing his lovely ass, clad in scrubs stretched tightly over the plump cheeks and bunched underneath from the rolling.

House swallowed roughly and continued, his voice gravelly. “You’re going to have to explain to me the whole Sylvester thing though. I don’t quite understand that.”

Wilson’s voice was muffled. “No, I don’t think I will.”

House sat gingerly on the side of the bed and reached out a hand. It hovered over Wilson’s cotton-clad ass cheek and shook. He snatched the hand back. “Pepe le Pew.”

The pillow moved and Wilson’s face appeared, his thick brows furrowed in question.

“You make me feel like Pepe Le Pew. I feel like I’m always chasing and chasing and chasing and you are always slipping away, just as I’m about to finally catch you.” House’s eyes were on his running shoes, his hands clasped in his lap.

Wilson pushed the pillow aside and raised himself up on his forearms, tilting his head until he could look directly at House.

“Pepe Le Pew … was chasing a cat who had no interest in him.”

“Yes he was.”

“Until the cat caught a clue and … fell in love with the skunk.”

House’s eyes flicked up to meet Wilson’s.

“That analogy doesn’t quite work either, does it?” Wilson turned over onto his side and rolled up to a sitting position, still keeping his weight off the illustrated hip. “Nobody had to hit me on the head with a piece of wood.”

“So what are you saying, Warner Brothers is crap at relationship analogies?” 

Wilson shook his head slowly, keeping his gaze on the bed spread. “I never wanted this, you know? I never wanted to risk…”

“What risk? We’ve been through just about everything in the last ten-plus years, I’m sure we’ll survive this.” House laid a cautious, careful hand on Wilson’s shin, slowly sliding it up to his knee.

Wilson’s eyes flicked up to House’s again. This time, instead of defeat and hurt, House saw hope. House’s gaze dropped to Wilson’s lips, and Wilson swallowed thickly.

“I think I lied,” Wilson rasped. “I want this.”

House shifted forward and leaned in, just a little, as Wilson did the same. Their lips met in a dry press, brief, tentative, soft. They pulled back slightly and Wilson’s hands came up to grip House’s biceps. House’s other hand strayed to the back of Wilson’s head, cupping it softly, and House’s mind cast back to earlier that morning when he had touched this same spot with wistful longing. Now he touched with intent, with the knowledge that soon it wouldn’t be just a soft touch he had to limit himself to.

They came together again, this time harder and with heat and want rather than questions. House groaned deep in his throat and opened his lips, flicking his tongue along Wilson’s, demanding entrance. Wilson complied, yielding to the invasion and exploring House’s mouth in turn. Impatiently, he pushed at House’s jacket, pushing it off his shoulders before turning his attention to the buttons on House’s shirt.

House eventually gave up and pulled back from Wilson’s lips, flailing his arms to rid himself of the jacket and the shirt, then pulled off his t-shirt as well. Wilson sat and watched with his mouth open, lips swollen and red, until House shot him a look as he pulled at his belt buckle. Wilson visibly shook himself and yanked off his scrub top before laying back and lifting his hips to work the scrub bottoms over his sore hip. At that, House stopped pushing his jeans over his hips and stood, pants sitting half way down his thighs, staring as Wilson revealed inch after inch of smooth skin. He nearly lost his balance and fell over when Wilson pulled the waistband of the scrubs over his erect, glistening cock and then shimmied them down to his ankles, kicking them off.

Wilson lifted his eyes to House’s and smiled slightly when he caught House staring. “Come on, then,” he rasped heavily. “I’ll show you Tweety, if you want.”

“Seen it,” House answered as he kicked off the jeans and carefully lifted the elastic of his boxers over his own hard on.

“When?” Wilson asked absently as he looked at House’s cock, long and quivering against his belly.

“This morning,” House replied, climbing back on the bed and laying down beside Wilson.

“You looked?” Wilson ran his hand up House’s arm and across his chest, feeling his way with his finger tips.

“I’ve been looking for a long time.” House said, eyes closing at the thrills of pleasure coursing through him at every spot where Wilson touched him. He leaned forward again and captured Wilson’s lips, shifting forward so that his entire body was lined up with Wilson’s, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, knee to knee. He wound his arm behind and around Wilson’s shoulder, holding him firmly against his chest, then trailed his hand down Wilson’s spine to his ass, that lovely, beautiful curve of flesh that started the whole ordeal.

Wilson bucked against him and pulled back to shout, “Ow!” as House ran his hand over the bandage that covered the tattoo.

“Oh, sorry.” House quickly moved his hand back up to Wilson’s back but his fingers again trailed down to grasp at Wilson’s butt cheeks. Wilson bucked again and grunted.

“Here, try this,” House whispered. “Turn over.” Wilson did as he was told and spooned back against House’s chest, his butt nestled in House’s groin, tattooed side up and not getting any pressure from anywhere.

“Perfect,” Wilson breathed, wriggling against House until he moaned deep in his chest, burying his face in Wilson’s hot neck.

House ran his hand over Wilson’s jutting hip bone and pulled back slightly, until his cock was nestled in the groove of Wilson’s ass, head just brushing against the small of Wilson’s back, and thrust lightly against it. House grunted helplessly at the spikes of pleasure shooting through him and thrust again, more forcefully. His cock slid up between Wilson’s cheeks, brushing the sensitive skin of the underside against the tight puckered entrance of Wilson’s ass. 

Wilson moaned softly, “Yes, House, god yes, more,” until he reached down and took his own cock in his hand, jacking it hard but slowly. House put his hand over Wilson’s, picked up the rhythm and then nudged Wilson’s hand out of the way. He wrapped his own long fingers around Wilson’s twitching, leaking cock and took up the rhythm that Wilson had set, thrusting himself into Wilson’s cleft at the same time. 

Quickly, the pressure and need built in both men, until Wilson reached behind him and clenched House’s ass in his fingers, bringing the other man’s cock even harder against himself and House’s hips stuttered, losing the rhythm. House cried out from behind clenched teeth and came, spurting into the cleft of Wilson’s ass. His cock stroked through the semen, coating both himself and Wilson in it. The hot slide of House’s cock made Wilson’s hips stutter and surge forward as he came too, shooting into and over top of House’s fist. House kept the motion up until Wilson pulled away, the pleasure becoming too much to take.

They lay spooned up against each other for long moments, getting their heart beats and breathing back to something close to normal. Eventually, House just wound his arm around Wilson’s chest and lazily wiped his hand on the bedspread. He let the deep lethargy of sleep creep up on him as he breathed in the scent of Wilson, sleepy and sweaty and sexy.

“House,” Wilson began, “I-”

“Sufferin’ succotash, Wilson,” House said, his voice a low sleepy growl. “Go to sleep.”

Wilson snorted softly and cuddled closer, and House got his wish. Wilson, warm and heavy in sleep, pressed against him in the night.   
____________________________

Translations:

Bon matin - good morning

J’aurais pensé que vous étiez toujours dans votre lit - I would have thought you would still be in your bed

Salut - hello

très futé - very smart

Le petit oiseau - the little bird

De rien - you’re welcome

J'espère qu'il aura un meilleur jour, aujourd’hui - I hope he will have a better day, today


End file.
